


hang a shining star upon the highest place

by tagides



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Cynthia Being Cynthia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Snowed In, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21975226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tagides/pseuds/tagides
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Owen is placed in a safe house. Curt decides to pay him a visit.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 9
Kudos: 53





	hang a shining star upon the highest place

**Author's Note:**

> A few considerations:  
> 1\. This is set in New York for aesthetic purposes, so pardon any artistic liberties I may take throughout.  
> 2\. It’s a little late for a Christmas fic but honestly, every day is a holiday if we really want to (and I so desperately want to).  
> 3\. English is NOT my first language. If you spot any mistakes, please let me know.

Even though Curt never considered himself a man of music, there’s a subtle sway in his step that only Frank Sinatra could ever invoke. A hum grows deep in his stomach, a curious sort of buzz not unlike that of alcoholic glee despite Curt only drinking virgins throughout the night. The lights dance along with the pairs spinning in the middle of the ballroom floor, creating gentle halos and points of shimmering reflections. It’s almost disconcerting for Curt to be noticing all these things whereas he would be drowning the very same observations in various spirits.

“Good to see you still standing,” Cynthia materializes beside Curt. Even in her high heels she’s barely hitting his shoulder, but it certainly doesn’t take away from the commanding aura she carries everywhere. Yet, it seems even Cynthia is momentarily affected by some secret Christmas spirit, because she’s almost imperceptibly swinging her long dress to the music.

Curt decides to ignore the jab and, instead, smiles gently. “You look very beautiful tonight.” It surprises him to notice that he truly thinks Cynthia is beautiful, almost the same way he thinks his mother is beautiful.

Of course, no matter his good intentions, Cynthia would never let her contentment come through. “Well, aren’t you the jolly fucking Father Christmas,” she grumbles while making case of not even facing Curt. “Are you going to dance with me or not, Mega?”

Like a slap to the back, he immediately stands up straighter. It’s some sort of twisted honor to be the one Agent to dance with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, he thinks. A dangerous cross between familiarity and the impending doom that, should he dream of stepping on her toes, he’s unquestionably going to be fed to the lions.

“With pleasure,” Curt tries to sound suave with the same tone of voice he’d pull on a mark. Instead of swooning, Cynthia rolls her eyes and discretely flips him off which is infinitely more entertaining.

They take to the ballroom floor, dancing round the other clearly less attractive guests. Against all odds, Cynthia sings along to the music in a pointed defiance for Curt to even think of commenting on it. Like a good piece of American Government Property, he does not, but tries to make her lose her careful uptight posture by complicating the dance steps. Cynthia follows along without fail.

“I don’t pay you nearly enough for you to be that happy,” she says, disgusted by Curt’s good mood.

That forces a small chuckle out of him because the CIA _really_ does not pay him enough for all the shit he endures. “I’m just cheering for the rise of capitalism like every red blooded American.”

Cynthia remains unimpressed. “Don’t fuck with me, Mega. You look like a snot-eating brat that got his grubby fucking hands in the cookie jar.”

They twirl for several moments before Curt gathers the courage to answer her. Happiness is the sort of idyllic thing that he usually thinks is too unattainable for him - sure, he has his moments of cheer, and he finds them in his mother’s coddling or Tatiana’s lilting laugh. Even Barb’s pestering brings him a sense of calming familiarity and, for a moment, Curt stops to appreciate the various women in his life without whom he would be most certainly dead. Yet the true meaning of happiness, the kind that comes without a looming cloud of responsibility and obligations and cold, freezing panic and _what’s going to happen next_ \- that’s something Curt can’t remember ever feeling. There’s always something to do and someone to meet and some far-off place to travel too, never knowing if it’s the place where death and he will have their final epic showdown. So no, Curt isn’t truly happy.

But it might me the closest he’s ever been to it.

“I, well,” he tries, then stops. “I’m going to see a friend after this, that’s all.”

Cynthia glares him down with the kind of rage reserved for one’s unruly child. Her eyes speak of thousands of horrors, and something about her anger must be palpable because the other dancers start to step away from their vicinity. It terrifies Curt. A tiny voice in the back of his head tells him he should know Cynthia would see through every half-truth and little white lie.

“I can’t _fucking_ believe you,” she hisses. “Fine, get fired, see if I fucking care.”

Despite what she says, Curt can tell she’s only this worried because she _does_ care – in her weird, violently affectionate way, but Cynthia cares. Hence, Curt is possessed with the dumb bravery that only people with a death wish are capable of. “ _You_ haven’t fired me yet.”

The hand on his shoulder flexes impossibly hard until Curt is leaning heavily on his right side, trying to escape the pain without making it too obvious that the Director of the CIA is attacking one of her best operatives. Seconds pass. It feels like an excruciating long eternity. Still, very slowly, Cynthia relaxes her fingers and regains her posture with a carefully constructed air of absolute indifference to the world around them, as if Curt’s puny existence is the least of her many, more important concerns. “Don’t give me any reasons to, Mega.”

Inside the ballroom it was hard to tell, but now that Curt has his feet deep in fresh snow, he can’t help but notice the blizzard mauling New York. The drive to Owen’s provisory apartment is complicated and more than a little dangerous, and lately it seems Curt has lost his appreciation for sudden bursts of adrenaline. He feels old, suddenly. It isn’t easy to admit, as he grips the backseat handle of the taxi with white knuckles, that being _good_ at something doesn’t mean he has to do it forever – maybe he could be good at something else? Maybe take up a new hobby, learn a new skill, or get a degree in a subject that piques his weird interests.

Still, Curt cuts himself off. It does not do well to dwell on dreams. Although he didn’t know it at the time, a part of him crashed and burned the moment he entered the Agency. To leave now seems like an impossible task, and even though Curt isn’t one to be stopped by _impossibilities_ – hell, that’s his whole job description – there’s no strength left in his spirit to walk away. To live in a world that hasn’t seen or felt the things he’s seen and felt is to doom himself to a life of isolation and ineptitude. At least for now, he’s just stuck in the isolation part.

Well, his mom would be delighted, he reasons. Fuck knows how many of her white hairs were Curtis-stressed-induced.

The safe house is as inconspicuous as possible. A brownstone building stands in the middle of other nearly identical brownstone buildings, with absolutely no distinct features except maybe for its occupants. Curt pulls his overcoat closed tighter, partially to conceal the suit he hasn’t changed out of, but mostly because of the heavy snow and wind whipping around him. His hair is probably a mess. For this, he wastes no time banging on the building door until a disgruntled doorwoman opens it for him.

It’s obvious that he’s facing a British agent. The woman has a clear American accent when she asks what he wants, and if it weren’t for her carefully put together appearance perhaps it would be possible to fool Curt. As it is, with her impeccable ponytail and manicured fingernails, it stands out to him how very much not an American doorwoman she is. The furrow of her eyebrows is eerily reminiscent of Owen.

“Happy Holidays!” he attempts to sound cheerier than he feels. “I’m Mrs. Moore’s grandson, she’s expecting me but you know how dreadful office parties can be, my boss just _wouldn’t_ let me go home, always on about his failing marriage like us regular humans can bare to listen to another second his ridiculous whining, I mean it is totally his fault-“

The agent hurriedly holds her hands up, gesturing to the unkept elevator in a silent plea for Curt to shut up and leave. He continues to spiel random small talk until the doors close in front of him and makes a mental note to ask Owen about the security in this safe house, since the woman at the front had absolutely no mind to even check about the existence of Mrs. Moore. Not that he’s particularly worried. Owen can surely take care of himself.

For the fiftieth time, Curt checks the paper Barb left him with the apartment number and a neat “Merry Christmas” at the bottom. It’s starting to get crumpled from all the times he’s pulled it out of his pocket only to obsess over a couple of numbers, but to Curt there’s so much more engraved into these tiny ink scrawls. For one, the immensurable amount of trust Barb continues to deposit in Curt, which is both a comfort and a burden. On the other hand, there’s the clear prospect of seeing Owen that brings back the giddy hum in his stomach from earlier – a childish energy, making his fingers tingle and the corners of his mouth vibrate.

He’s just been so _worried_ since the whole fiasco. No one told Curt about anything, and he suspects that if anyone knew how much he was able to discover with a couple of careful searches and a ridiculous amount of determination, he’d be thrown out. Or shot. Still, the whole event had been mediatic enough to reach Curt’s ears from across two secret agencies and leave a heavy weight on his heart when the words “Owen Carvour” and “almost died” were spoken together.

And that’s his _partner_ , he thinks. If anyone was going to hurt the only person Curt could ever work with, they couldn’t expect him not to do something about it.

For the first minute after Curt knocks, nothing happens. It’s enough to make him question if somehow Barb got it wrong or, God forbid it, Owen is hurt. A spike of anxiety grows in his chest and makes him a little more trigger happy than he should – Curt is already reaching for the gun on the waistband of his pants when the door goes wide open.

He registers two things, in this exact order. First, Owen is alive and unharmed, apart from a small cut on his eyebrow that seems to be healing quite well. Second, he’s unharmed but he’s certainly _armed_ and the barrel is directed right at the space between Curt’s eyes.

“Wow, alright, lovely seeing you too,” Curt whisper-shouts.

Owen tuts and grabs hold of his shoulder – the same spot as Cynthia, what the _fuck_ – to pull him inside before closing the apartment door. Then, and only then, does he put the gun down. “What are you doing here, you blockhead?”

It stings a little. In all the scenarios Curt rolled around in his brain, none of them involved Owen being this displeasured in seeing him, since treating Curt like a nuisance had been strictly reserved to Cynthia Houston and little else. It makes Curt feel out of place. Everything is too stuffy and too hot suddenly, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or where to look to just escape the pure exasperation Owen seems to be exuding.

“I was worried about you, is that a capital offense?” Curt grumbles. Then, as he realizes it makes him sound like a pouting child, changes his tone. “Curt Mega is here to offer the luxury of his company, consider yourself lucky.”

Owen pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright, just, sit down and don’t break anything.”

He sounds… tired. The apartment is nice enough but almost entirely devoid of personality, save from the few bits and bobs that undoubtedly belong to Owen – there are some hard-covered books on a small coffee table, an antique record player to the side, and his reading glasses rest next to an empty mug. If he were to bet, the blanket dutifully folded on the arm of the couch belongs to him, too. Even still, there’s a certain somber and depressive feel to the whole thing. Curt understands then that all the blinds are shut tight, and the apartment probably hasn’t seen a single ray of natural light in weeks.

There’s a radiator by the couch. Although Curt sheds his overcoat, he moves closer to it in hopes of drying his damp socks.

“Here you go, love,” Owen reappears carrying two mugs. To Curt’s surprise, it’s hot chocolate. “I’m… sorry for snapping at you.”

He doesn’t just sound tired. Owen _looks_ tired, too. There’s a fraying at the edges of his person, like a rubber band that’s being pulled taut and oh so close to snapping. His hair falls lose and curls at the ends, something Owen wouldn’t allow on any other normal day. It sits heavy in Curt’s heart to notice the dark circles beneath his eyes, whose shine seems to have been put out, and the way his complexion is turning a sickly grey instead of the healthy tan it used to have. Curt always associated Owen with warm tones – chocolate eyes, chocolate hair, soft hands, fiery moods – and this is like a washed-out version of the live-wire partner Curt knows.

“You look like shit.”

“Thank you, Curtis. Just what I wanted to hear.” The use of Curt’s full name takes him aback – so it’s worse than it seems. Owen crosses his legs and rests his weight on the back of the couch, making a stubborn strand of hair fall in his face as he turns to Curt. “Do the Americans know you’re here?”

“Not necessarily.” To punctuate the sentence, Curt takes a sip of the hot chocolate. “Your babysitter downstairs didn’t ask many questions either – any questions, really.”

His sigh sounds resigned to the inevitability that push comes to shove, Owen is his self-line of defense. For long moments he doesn’t say anything and picks at the edge of his pajama pants, lost inside his own head. Curt can’t hold it in any longer.

“Owen… What happened?” From the tense set of his shoulders to the straight line of his mouth, Curt can tell Owen doesn’t want to answer. “C’mon, we’re friends, you can tell me anything.”

“I… I don’t know.” His voice is small and uncertain. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be acting this way, it’s undignified.”

They’ve known each other for enough time that Curt knows how Owen hates appearing vulnerable. It comes with their line of work – vulnerabilities make you weak, and when you’re supposed to be the greatest this world has ever seen, there’s no alternative. An artfully constructed persona seems the only way to survive, even out of the field, and Curt knows all this because he’s the same.

Or he used to be? Looking back at their years working together, it’s clear that Curt is getting _soft_ , but it was Owen who showed him that _soft_ isn’t always _bad_. Having someone to come to and spill the horrible deeds locked inside for years made Curt more confident in his abilities and, above all, more balanced. A balanced agent is an alive agent, but not because he must be. Owen made Curt _want_ to be alive.

“Bullshit, I won’t think less of you for a couple of bad days,” he tries to sound both reassuring and firm. It must work, because Owen relaxes as his eyes scan the room but settle on Curt’s chest, just barely avoiding his face. It’s still progress, and he will take the small victories.

“It started just like any regular, run-of-the-mill assignment.” Owen swallows dry. “I’m not sure what happened but, they must have been tipped off. One second we’re advancing without a single soul around, and the next they’re pointing a gun at my partner’s head.” There’s no need to ask what happened to his partner. Owen’s mouth trembles slightly and, when he takes a deep breath, it sounds like his lungs are drowning. “They knew our names, too – our real names, Curt.”

A shiver runs down Curt’s spine. “Is that why they put you in a safe house?”

He nods. “And probably why no one was supposed to know what happened, or where I was,” Owen finishes. “Which begs the question, how are _you_ here?”

Honestly, Curt doesn’t want to change the subject. There’s so much he wants to ask about the mission, the people that caught them, but most of all how Owen is feeling. It’s inhumane to throw a grieving man in a cubicle, close the blinds, and expect him to overpower whatever dark thoughts he comes up with. Even though a part of Curt knows this is the best way to make sure Owen doesn’t get assassinated, the protective instinct is strong enough to shock him.

Yet, it’s obvious how Owen desperately wants to move on the conversation and process things on his own terms. Out of respect, Curt tries to sound nonchalant when he speaks. “I’m the best, you shouldn’t doubt my abilities.”

Owen smirks in a such a characteristic Owen way, Curt feels a wash of relief. “What you mean is, Barb did it.”

“I like to think it were my persuasion methods that convinced her to help me.”

“Uh-uh, sure, whatever you say, love.”

Right before they settle into a comfortable silence, it dawns on him one of the other reasons why he had to visit his friend. By his overcoat stands a brown paper bag, only a little soggy from the snow, and Curt thanks God he remembered to wrap the present in something more protective. It wasn’t easy buying something for Owen, but memories of their missions seemed to have a common thread – because Owen is the type of hipster who insists vinyl records bring out the true emotion in singers’ voices, so even though Curt _really_ doesn’t understand anything about music, he always lets him rant aloud about all beautiful things musical. In the end, they both find an escapist kind of joy in it.

“Since it’s Christmas Eve _Eve_ and you couldn’t be my fated company to the CIA’s Gala, I think it’s only fair if I bring the Holiday spirit,” Curt pauses, and offers the record forward for Owen to take, “to you.”

Owen’s eyes shine in surprise. He can tell he’d forgotten it was almost Christmas. “Oh, Curt… Love, I didn’t get you anything.”

Curt doesn’t really care about that, he finds. “Just keep saving my life when we get out of here, I’ll call it even.”

Nothing can stop him from watching Owen’s face as he unwraps the vinyl. It’s even harder to look away when his mouth widens in surprise and then splits into a beautiful smile, the kind that manages to light up his entire being. There’s a shadow of recollection when his hands ghost over the title of it. As if it were possible, Owen melts further into the couch and into a comfortable, reminiscent gaze. “I remember this song.”

Truthfully, Curt couldn’t decide if he preferred him to remember or not but, when he came back to his senses in the shop, he’d already bought the record. Because of their job, the first times Curt and Owen were paired up they didn’t speak much – or rather, Curt would never shut up, but he didn’t say anything important. Owen was the type to answer in short, clipped, deeply sarcastic replies that added little to the conversation but did wonders in bruising Curt’s ego. Kept him on his toes, he’d say. The night they finally broke the ice was when Curt drank too much, went down, and decided to relay his entire tragic backstory to Owen in the middle of hiccups, barely concealed sobs, and half shouts about his mother, who held her only son and sung Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas every time he asked about his father. It wasn’t a very normal song choice for the middle of the summer, but it didn’t stop Mrs. Mega – Curt suspected that was the only song she properly knew. As the years passed, Curt forever associated the song with the kind of comfort and peace he so rarely achieved. Something made him want to share that with Owen.

“It felt appropriate,” Curt tries to cover up, only to realize he doesn’t need to. “Well, do you like it?”

Owen still hasn’t stopped smiling. “I love it. Do you mind if I put it on?”

If he doesn’t wait for Curt to answer, it’s none of his business. Curt takes the chance to light some of the smaller lamps so they cast the living room in a softer, orange glow, and as Frank Sinatra’s voice starts to fly through the air, the space feels less depressing and more like a cozy lodge where they can wait out the cold.

“This is nicer, right?” he searches for some validation. “This is a hole I wouldn’t mind getting stuck in.”

Of course, his humor is met with an eye-roll, but Owen is still staring at Curt with that reminiscent gaze. Then, just as quickly, he turns melancholic. “Well, you’re not stuck here. And it’s getting late, I don’t want to force your stay.”

Curt doesn’t want to leave, at all. The idea of leaving this Owen alone with his thoughts is scary, but he also knows that there’s no way he’ll be able to come back without raising suspicion. They both know it. Still, it’s late, and no matter what Curt feels he can’t find a plausible excuse to stay longer.

Just as he’s opening his mouth to squeak out any kind of goodbye, a thunder shakes the building. Curt is now acutely aware of the wind roaring outside, even with the record still playing in the background, and Owen moves to the window to peak between the gaps in the blinds. He sighs. “Never mind that not being stuck here bullshit, love. I don’t think you’re going anywhere tonight.”


End file.
